Manhattan,
New York

There's a hum that brushes the eardrum when walking through Grand Central Terminal during morning rush hour. It's loud enough to drown out the repetitious clanking of almost seventy trains thundering in and out, particularly when there's an operational need to be infallible.

Delta operative 2-6 walked a typical commuter's pace with his hands in his jacket pockets, hustling to the upper concourse with the target in sight. His left contact lens displayed a solid green line just above the target's head that underlined the name Jonathan Moore.

2-6 let his subconscious mind calculate the trajectories of commuters zig-zagging in front of him. No one would break his focus, nor would they get a good look at his face. Circumnavigating NYPD surveillance was easy — a tilt of his head at all the appropriate times.

Jonathan Moore stopped near a pillar to wait for the 4-Train. He pulled his hat down low on his brow, and stood with his thumbs looped under the straps of his backpack. After a moment, he stepped forward and looked down the tunnel at the faint headlights from the train coming around the bend.

Delta-2-6 smirked knowing there were exactly thirty-two seconds before the 4-Train was scheduled to arrive. He waited casually behind the target, toggling modes on his contact lens to give him a view of the apparatus secured in that backpack.

After a Doppler effect of repetitious clanking and whining of grinding metals, the train halted. The target boarded and carefully swung his backpack to his front, placing it in his lap as he sat in the first seat available on the right. To the untrained eye, Jonathan Moore was calm and collected; just another guy on the train going wherever they go. But 2-6 knew better. He didn't even need the analytics on his contact lens to see the unnatural suppression of fear prior to martyrdom written all over the target's face. Another man brainwashed to be a suicide bomber.

2-6 approached the target with his hands still in his jacket and leaned against the vertical handrail. He waited. Patiently.

The train came to its first stop at 33rd Street. Some passengers exited and some entered. The seat to the target's right was now available, so he took his hands from his jacket while there was still commotion. He jabbed a pressure point at the target's neck with his middle finger, instantly cutting off the circulation of air to the target's brain and disrupting his nervous system. The kiss of death. The target's head slammed against his shoulder and hung down at his chest. Jonathan Moore would regain consciousness in less than five seconds, and before the hour was up, he would suffer from fatal cardiopulmonary arrest.

There were two glances from commuters who arbitrarily bothered to look up just then, but no real observations. 2-6 was too fast. He swiftly grabbed the backpack by the top handle and walked off the train just as the doors were closing behind him.

When 2-6 surfaced, he was at 33rd Street and Park Avenue South. It was time to return to base to disassemble and properly dispose of the chemical diffuser now in his possession.

There was no sense of pride or vanity in a Delta operative's success; it was just another day at the office to do something as profound as prevent an attempted chemical terrorist attack on Wall Street. Mission accomplished.